Tiny Earthquakes

The big gay house across the street is having a party. 

Smooth Operator travels through spring air and 

into my window as 

I lay in bed picturing a sleep that just wont come. 

Lately I picture other peoples lives like they’re
Francesca Lia Block novels. 

Filled with bohemian smells and textures 

and adventures.

While I sit in my tower 

and work my day job 

and every sense just ends up tasting or smelling or feeling like styrofoam. 

I think about parties in my past, 

sour sticky wine 

and crippling crushes on boys who were terrified by my desire. 

I think about how the party is over and it’s been traded for 

holy basil tea and meditation. 

Mostly I’m calm about this change 

but some nights I lay awake 

missing the jagermeister and arguments with strangers about the meaning of life, 

and watching the sun rise, 

and pulling my bass out of its case in a dirty bar to get up on stage and have at it. 

So much love.

So much love in this new life that I never knew before, 

because I didn’t know how to love others. 

Surely that would make me want to stay and be grateful 

but it’s these flash reverberations from the past that take me back. 

Like tiny earthquakes inside me 

exploding beads of longing that pervade to my fingertips. 

Tonight I get out of bed and sit on my deck smoking cigarettes watching that house. 

Tiny ears perking up trying to catch bits of conversation. 

Tiny moments stollen vicariously and sucked into my lungs with smoke. 

Tiny earthquakes in my chest splitting and rearranging me.

Here’s the truth,

I’m afraid of this me I am becoming.

I’m afraid of all the things I’ve said that I can do or be.

I’m afraid of pressure, of love, afraid to lose.

I’m afraid of failure. 

Sometimes I drift into times when I didn’t have to be anybody. 

Times when I cast wishes into whisky bottles and hoped for the best. 

Times when I felt like I had time. 

Growth and rebirth again and again as I shed my skin emerge anew.

Tiny earthquakes repeating ad infinitum.

The Man in the Picture:

I used to look at this photo of you on our fridge,
and then I would look at you.
I would slide my hand down your soft wide hip and say,
"Baby, why don't you look like that picture anymore?"
"I'm not sure", you'd say,
and walk upstairs to sit infront of your computer with a tub of cold spaghetti sauce and a spoon.
(A behavior so idiosyncratically yours.)

At night I'd crawl into bed stinking of whisky, and sorrow, and disappointment,
and you'd wrap your arms around me
                                    Envelope me.
                                    Warm.
                                    Soft.

You loved me in a time when I couldn't love myself - and yet,
unconditional was not my love for you.
Again I would turn to that photo of you on the fridge.
"You look so handsome, and cool, and fun. When was that again?"
"Some years ago. Before I met you"
I'd take another hit from the bottle and both you and the picture would start to get blurry.
And I wouldn't care much for either of you anymore.

I would obliterate - and you
would calm, protect, take care of me and my ego.
I would disrespect - and you
would forgive, relieve, dry my tears with your sleeve.

The day you left me I stomped and cried,
I held your shirt collar and felt emptiness pervade me.
A week later I sat shivering in bed,
feeling like I had no skin, no heart
                                     No courage.

And today when I see you I see the man in the picture,
blossomed by the light of no longer standing in my shadow.
I watch you from afar,
Because I love you too much to get close.

I love you too much to get close.


-J

Ode to a Woman's Sensitivity:

Today I woke up and thought about fragility. Wondered when it became unattractive for women to be delicate. I thought about the story of the princess and the pea. How she was so sensitive that she felt the pea under 20 mattresses, and THIS was what set her above the other girls. This was what the prince had been waiting for. I imagine that at that time that was beautiful. Today, its because of this fragility that I don’t feel beautiful or desirable. I am the princess and the pea. Ultra and hyper sensitive. Noticing the smallest detail and feeling it with intensity. I said to you once over a salad at a restaurant “Things effect me”. You laughed and made fun of me for months about that. Many moons later I said to you “Do you think even a small part of you is attracted to my sensitivity?"  …you didn’t even flinch.  “No Honey" You said, "That’s a part of you that never ceases to turn me off”

And so there it is. The question being…Do the men I give my heart to look at sensitivity with callous disdain? Or do all men? Is this once cherished part of the female psyche been re appropriated to be a negative trait? Or am I just finding the people that feel that way and latching on to them? and if the latter is so…why? What is it I find attractive about a man that doesn’t accept a huge part of me. 

I have and will continue to accept my sensitivity and put it to good use. I understand there are careless and self harmful ways to use my sensitivity and I will not let that be or define me. I will find strength in being delicate. I will find self love in being sensitive. I will be the princess writhing in her bed wondering how the bowling ball got under her when it is merely a pea and I will see the gifts that this hyper psychic intuition gives me. And then I will find a man that thinks it’s beautiful, too.

Past transgressions: The Prince of Cups

I said the words and then it rained

Like a final release.

Booming thunder and lightning in the sky like veins.

I stood there on that city street

like I'd always imagined the two of us

on our deserted island

where we could really be together.

The water came down heavy like shells

exploding into tiny pieces as they hit the ground.

My sandpaper feet felt like silk on the asphalt

and my hair stuck to my face like

a thin layer of tissue paper.

For that moment just before the storm

That moment where you can feel the electricity in the air

The "if only"s came out of the tips of my fingers

and danced on the tree infront of me like little birds

mingling with the heat and the iris' below

ever to be forgotton?

I think not...

Ever to be remembered

Catapulted into the past like my grandfathers eyes and the way the smoke came out of his mouth as he sat on his warm brown chair.

The prince of cups.

He stairs into the wine and tells me what I'm thinking.
Lilacs and loss, a parallelled past

Cascading over the puddles

as I look and my reflection and see him instead.

Sometimes I wonder if once day I'll wake up

and he wont exist-

like he was inside me all along.

Or maybe I'll wake up and I'll be on that island

with him sitting in a palm tree

smiling that giant smile that takes up his whole face.

Today I woke up and the rain had stopped.

I woke up and couldn't remember what he looked like anymore.

A few short breaths.

This morning I woke up
And the air was still -
Electricity died down in my life for a
Few
Short
Breaths.
Today I woke up tired and fearful.
I woke up and began to break my own heart
- Before you got the chance.

Lips do what hands do
But hearts do the antithesis of what brains do.
I pray with my lips
-with you and inside you
And I feel for you with my mind
-without you and outside you.

This is the part where I break in two.
Dive headfirst into the shallow end
and feel my skull split.
This is where I realize that I boarded the train
- Simultaneously with the realization
that its moving to fast to get off.
And its taking me further
And further
And further away
From my body.

Still, Rather than taking in the scenery and the majesty - of you
I cover my eyes and impatiently wait for the sound of the crash.

The truth is this...
You may break me.
And there is nothing I can do
To protect myself from this.
You also may not.
And I'll have suffered for nothing.
The truth is,
I must go on standing
To keep my spine intact.
I must go on moving
So's not to forget who I am
Truth is,
The train is me
And if you hop off
It will keep going forever.

Eyes open, dear
You are love
I am you
And we are free most
Just after we've been caged.

A letter from a drowning girl:

Tonight I am alone
Much like other nights
but tonight my head spins
and I cant shut it off.
Tonight I think about love
and ships
and how they sink
and how we have no control over that.
I listen to music, I watch a movie, I drink cinnamon tea
They distract me briefly and in small measures.
Mostly I picture open water
thinking this will soothe me
but again I start thinking about these ships
White sails weathered brown and rugged from the storms that pass
in and out of you and me.
wood splintered and digging into my feet.
and how even with all this I still refuse to jump
I still refuse to swim.
I only keep my eyes open for another ship
prepare myself ready to make the jump.
Love is not heavy, but mine is.
And if I’m not sinking in you
I’m sinking in me.
Only I go deeper.
And it’s cold down here in the places within myself I pretend aren’t there.
So I claw at the water praying for a saviour
a god, a man, a little bit of truth
something other than myself to keep me afloat.
Somewhere warm to crawl into
cause when I’m thinking about you
I’m not thinking about me.
No, love is not heavy
But mine is.
and I search within myself for the mermaid
the siren, the scaled flipper, the thrust
the last little part of me that believes I know how to swim.
praying that even the search its self will keep me afloat

Just for today.
Just for this minute.
Just for this second.
I am here.

Wishes

I sat on the church steps and wished to stop loving you.
Again and again over my life I’ve made this same wish.
Over birthday candles, out my window before bed,
Blowing dandillions in the fall.
I don’t talk to God
Until I want to stop loving someone,
Who’s what I want - but nothing close to what I need.
Making this wish again and again you’d think I’d figure something out
More protective mechanisms so I dont have to wish this again
But I dont.

You’re one of a kind - until you’re not.
You don’t cross your t’s or dot your i’s - and I cant read you
You relax me in my deepest parts - and then you stir me up again
I am yours - until I can be mine.

Today I reached for you
And when i pulled back my hands they were empty
I looked deep into the crevasses of my palms
Wondering briefly how these hands got so worn
So many wishes - so little growth

There’s insight here about letting go
Just do it - or dont - it’ll do its self, right?
Stop reaching - stop extending - stop exerting

Just relax
It’s over
I am done…